I've watched you now a full half-hour; Self-poised upon that yellow flower And, little Butterfly! Indeed I know not if you sleep or feed. How motionless! - not frozen seas More motionless! and then What joy awaits you, when the breeze Hath found you out among the trees, And calls you forth again!

"One impulse from a vernal wood

Laying out grounds... may be considered as a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.... it is to assist Nature in moving the affections... the affections of those who have the deepest perception of the beauty of Nature.

A youth to whom was given So much of earth, so much of heaven.

Huge and mighty forms that do not live like living men, moved slowly through the mind by day and were trouble to my dreams.

The gods approve The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul.

Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.